A tall and white cylindrical container. It contains the lost skin of a pencil. That lost skin belongs to you, my childhood friend. Your sweet and humorous cover has been shaved off by the metal sheets of a pencil sharpener. What remains is a pencil bare and sensitive to anyone else’s hands. If someone else tries to erase what you write, you harden and don't lose a fragment of your rubber. When others frown upon your lack of use when it comes to communicating, I try to comfort you and use your lead from time to time. But, each time I try to write a contradictory statement or spelling error, you keep b r e a k i n g y o u r t i p and won't sharpen, even if I shave you down to the eraser. I don't want to lose you today, but it's tempting to throw you away.